


Equilibrium

by molo (esteefee)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-28
Updated: 2005-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-SR, Starsky fights to recover and Hutch struggles to accept the past...and their possible future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equilibrium

_To dispose a soul to action we must upset its equilibrium._

— Eric Hoffer, _The Ordeal of Change_ (1964)

In a rented beach house, on a warm evening in late June, Hutch watched as Starsky sat propped up on the couch holding court, a crowd of good friends dancing attendance. His quick grin flashed easily, repeatedly, as he listened to their animated chatter. The light was warm and low, almost hiding the shadowy smudges under Starsky's eyes and his unusual, sickly pallor. Almost, but not quite.

Hutch felt a sudden, humiliating sting of tears in his eyes, and turned away quickly to look out the window. The murmur of the party guests, the flurries of their talk and the sudden loud gusts of amusement all felt strangely unreal, like the laugh track on a bad sitcom. As if none of this were really happening. Or maybe had happened long ago, in a different, brighter place. Hutch lifted his drink and took a sip, and then made it a gulp, finishing it swiftly. Putting his glass down on the windowsill, he stared out into the night and at the black waves striking the beach.

He sensed a hulking presence at his elbow and tilted his head slightly.

"This is something else, isn't it, Hutchinson? Lord, I prayed for this day," Captain Dobey said.

Hutch turned and smiled automatically. His lips froze on the expression when he saw the painful relief in his captain's warm brown eyes.

"Sure, Captain. It's...something else."

"Never thought he'd make it. To see him out of that damned hospital—" Dobey's gruff voice cut off and he cleared his throat. "I'm sure I'll have you two hotdogs making a mess of my squad room again in no time at all." Dobey smiled at the thought.

"Hey, Captain Dobey," Huggy called out from by the pool table, saving Hutch from having to reply. "This Baylor chick is cleaning us out. Come on over here and give her a well-deserved lesson in humility, if you please."

Dobey smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Time to take a chump to school," he said gleefully, clapping Hutch on the back once before walking off.

Hutch closed his eyes, the hardness in his throat making it difficult to swallow. He reached for his drink but found it empty. Setting his face into a polite smile, he went back to the kitchen to mix another.

Edith Dobey was there, carefully moving some delicate-looking hors d'oeuvres from a cooking sheet onto a glass tray. She looked up and smiled at him. "Cheese puffs. Probably too refined for this lot, but I know Dave loves them."

"He sure does," Hutch agreed, staring down at the tray.

"I'll make certain he gets first dibs," she said conspiratorially. "He needs to put some weight back on. I just have to get them by Harold, first." With a wink, she swooped the tray out of the kitchen.

Hutch freshened his drink and then stood in the doorway, watching as Edith approached Starsky and offered a napkin and the tray of appetizers. Starsky took one and nodded his thanks, but made no move to eat it. Hutch grimaced and looked away. A profound melancholy swept over him; in its wake, he felt the cold, anxious stillness that had been his emotional _modus operandi_ for the past month and a half. It was a waiting. He wasn't sure for what, anymore.

At first, he had waited for Starsky to die. With the hopeless resignation of a man standing before the executioner's block, Hutch had stayed by the hospital bed, attuned to every tortured beat of Starsky's heart, waiting for it to stop.

Then, when Starsky had survived, he had waited for him to awaken, for the blue eyes to open and show the indomitable spirit still within. After that, it was merely a matter of waiting _on_ Starsky, making sure he had pain medication when he needed it, blankets when he was cold, or just a sheet when the fever came. Then more waiting, this time for nurses to take Starsky's temperature every hour while Hutch watched the slow, dangerous rise with utter despair. Just as later, when Starsky responded to the antibiotics, Hutch watched the gradual drop with disbelief. Even in his joy and relief, he was waiting—for his partner to be whole again, for the nightmares to end.

They still hadn't.

So he waited. Right now, by the door to the kitchen, his drink doing a number on his empty stomach. His head swam a little with it, and he leaned against the stout wooden frame. It would be good place to stand in the event of an earthquake, he thought idly. Of course, the _tsunami_ that would soon follow would quickly sweep this little house directly out to sea.

Hutch gave a dark chuckle and finished his drink, turning to make yet another. He parked his hip against the counter, and waited for their guests to leave.

~ o ~

"That was some shindig, huh?" Starsky asked as he levered himself off of the couch. Hutch muttered something in agreement and moved fast to help him up, accompanying him as he hobbled to his bedroom. Starsky put a patient hand on Hutch's shoulder as he got him shucked out of his pants; an easier task than it might have been in the past, simply because the injured man had lost so much weight in the hospital. The once-tight jeans now hung on him like a scarecrow's costume.

Next off was his outer shirt, but then Starsky stopped Hutch's hand with a dip of his head, and Hutch let him be. _You don't have to be ashamed, buddy._ But there was no saying that out loud; to acknowledge the break in intimacy was to give it even more weight. And possibly cause Starsky embarrassment.

Hutch waited until Starsky had settled himself in the bed before going to the bathroom to fetch the nightly medications and the hospital instruction sheet. He paused after drawing a glass of water from the tap. The night was silent. The house was so isolated that Hutch had, when renting the place, feared it was too far off the beaten path. But the nearest hospital, where Starsky would spend every other day in physical therapy, was only a ten-minute drive away, and that at normal highway speeds. Reassured, he had booked the place for two months. In two months, Starsky should be healthy enough to navigate the stairs of his own apartment.

If not, then...not. It didn't matter. Hutch would wait forever, if that was how long it took for Starsky to recover.

He shook his head and carried the medication and glass of water back to the bedroom. Starsky was sitting up with his back against the headboard. He looked tired, but not particularly sleepy. The painkiller would soon take care of that, though. Hutch could count on the fingers of one hand the number of coherent conversations he had held with Starsky over the past month, between the heavy medication and Hutch's work. Starsky was down to just using Tylenol, for the most part, but tonight had been a long evening, and one look at the pinched look to Starsky's eyes told Hutch he would need something.

"I said, 'some shindig.'" Starsky looked up at him, an intent expression on his face as he took the pills from Hutch's hand.

Hutch shook himself, mentally, and responded, "Yeah! Great to see everybody again, don't you think?" He watched carefully as Starsky took his medicine then considered the pain pill for a moment before popping that down, as well.

"How would you know?" Starsky asked, handing the glass back. "I don't think you spent five minutes with anybody." His eyes were dark and questioning.

Hutch rubbed a hand over his moustache. "I guess I'm tired. You know, getting everything over here, getting the place set up."

"Yeah, huh?" Starsky moved his shoulders, grimacing.

"Time to lie down, buddy," Hutch said. "You've been upright all evening. Gotta rest those muscles."

"Don't need to tell me," Starsky responded irritably. He shifted down until he was flat, and gave a relieved sigh. Hutch reached over to turn out the light.

"Not yet," Starsky halted him. "Siddown here a second, Blondie."

Warily, Hutch sat on the edge of the bed, wishing he hadn't been so liberal with the scotch tonight. Starsky's voice had that no-nonsense edge that said he meant to talk business. And Hutch wasn't up to his usual footwork. In fact, he could barely sit without swaying, at this point. He hadn't lied about being tired.

"What's going on with you?" Starsky asked him straight out. "Tonight was supposed to be a celebration."

"I did celebrate," Hutch smiled wryly.

"Yeah, I saw that. You were really knocking 'em back." Starsky's voice held the faintest hint of disapproval. _Ridiculous_. Hutch had seen him toss down more than a couple on too many occasions.

"Just trying to unwind," Hutch said, easily. He made as if to rise but Starsky's hand came out to press down on his thigh. The hand was almost intimately placed, and Hutch felt a flash of heat at the touch. He looked up into Starsky's knowing eyes and his heart made a shuddering attempt to halt in his chest.

"We ever gonna talk about it?" Starsky asked, his voice low.

 _Oh, Christ. He knows._ "T-talk about what?" Hutch clenched his teeth, almost trapping his stuttering tongue.

"'About what'?" Starsky asked disbelievingly. "About the average annual increase in Dobey's belt size." His sarcasm bit hard. "About what happened, dumbass."

"Oh." _Thank God._ Of course Starsky didn't know. How could he when Hutch, himself, hadn't known. Not really. Not until shards of glass lay on the bloody, too-still figure crumpled on the asphalt of the police parking lot. Not until that one, horrible, yawning moment when all time stopped.

Hutch blinked, realizing Starsky was still waiting for his reply. "What's to talk about? It happened. It was...bad." _Idiot. Maybe **he**_ _needs to._ "Unless...unless _you_ want to talk about it, buddy."

Starsky sighed and yawned, his mouth opening wide before he said, "I do. I think we should. Only, I think I'm pretty beat. That pill's hitting me already."

Hutch got up from the bed, thanking the miracles of modern medicine for his reprieve. "Okay. Get some rest. Later is soon enough," he said, the relief standing stark in his voice. He coughed. "Good night, partner."

Hutch turned out the light, hearing Starsky groan a little as he settled himself for sleep and then a mumbled, "G'night."

~ o ~

For a moment, upon waking from his restless sleep, Hutch was completely disoriented. The bed, and the view were so unfamiliar he panicked a little, caught in other nightmare wakings when he'd been moved while unconscious. But then he saw the side table, and recognized his Magnum lurking on it next to his pocket watch, and the fear fled.

They had only been at the beach house a few days. Hutch had told Starsky he'd chosen it mainly for the lack of stairs and its convenient proximity to the rehabilitation hospital, but the truth was he liked the look of the place. He liked the aged, salted wooden planks of the private deck that looked out over the ocean; the airy, well-lit living room with the big picture windows; and the sense of seclusion from neighboring eyes. The next nearest house was hundreds of yards down the beach, and Hutch had had it with people and their constant presence—all the nurses, orderlies and doctors, and the visitors with their well-meant interference. He wanted a little peace—to hole up, and get his ailing partner back into top form before they would have to once again face others.

And, truth be told, if only in the privacy of his mind, he wanted no one between them. On this small island of waiting, it would be just the two of them, most of the time. Hutch craved that. It would be a short stint in Eden before he had to turn Starsky back over to the callous mercies of their job and the streets. For Starsky _would_ be going back—he'd made that clear in no uncertain terms. And whatever Starsky set his mind to, he always accomplished. It was one of the things that Hutch admired most about him.

Well, next to the deep blue of his eyes. Eyes that seemed to see everything, and had.

It was too early to get out of bed, but Hutch rose anyway and did his morning routine, then put some coffee on and waited for Starsky to wake up. When he did at last, groaning and muttering as he got himself out of bed, Hutch gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay seated, Starsky's brief words on the subject still burning in his ears.

 _A few hours after Hutch had brought Starsky home from the hospital, Starsky had risen laboriously and shuffled slowly over to the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Hutch had almost followed him in before he realized what he was doing. He paused just outside the door._

 _"You need anything?" he asked softly._

 _He heard Starsky make a disgusted sound before answering, "I need to take a piss. You gonna do that for me, too?"_

 _Okay, so maybe Hutch had gone a bit overboard with the eager-beaver bit, shuttling Starsky into a cozy position on the couch before moving to unpack the groceries he'd brought with him, offering to make Starsky lunch, was he hungry? Thirsty? Did he want water or a soda? Did Starsky like the house?_

 _And when Starsky had come out of the bathroom to find Hutch still hovering by the doorway, one hand raised as if to help him back to his seat, Starsky had let out another snort of disgust._

 _"Cut it out, Hutch," he said evenly, pausing to give him a hard look, his message clear, before making his way back to his nest on the couch._

 _'Back off,' the look had said, and Hutch knew he was right. Treating Starsky like an invalid would only serve to make him one, in truth. And nothing would slow down his recovery more than killing his pride._

So Hutch was trying to back off, to give his partner some room and only help him on such occasions like last night, when he had overtaxed his limited strength. But there was nothing harder than watching him grunting in pain and walking like an old man to join him at breakfast. Such a bad joke, to think of Hutch's athletic, agile friend considering it a major triumph to make it from bed to table.

While making their eggs, Hutch caught the occasional testing glance, and so wasn't surprised when Starsky finally cracked open his mouth to ask, "So what's buggin' ya?"

"Nothing," Hutch muttered, then winced internally at the sullen, childish response. Starsky's sardonic look told him he was equally unamused by the prevarication. Hutch tried again.

"I'm...I feel like I'm...trapped. Not _here_ ," he amended hastily at the surprised hurt on Starsky's face. "Trapped between...what...has happened, and waiting for—" Hutch cut himself off, frustrated at being unable to express the dull, encapsulating sensation that plagued him.

"You think something's gonna happen? That one of Gunther's goons might try somethin'?" Starsky asked, picking up on the source of some of Hutch's unease.

An admonition from Dobey the night before came back to Hutch with a pang. His captain had stood at the door, one of the last guests to leave, his pockets stuffed with crumpled wads of the cash winnings that were the result of his pool prowess. But he'd looked dead serious as he put a hand on Hutch's shoulder, saying, _"Be careful, son. Stay on your toes. Just because you chopped off the head doesn't mean the beast ain't still kicking...."_

"That's part of it, I guess," Hutch admitted. "I promised Dobey I would wear my piece all the time as long as we're 'out here in the boonies' as he called it."

Starsky didn't look particularly concerned, which was odd for a man who had nearly been killed by the very beast under discussion. Maybe Fate had already dealt him such a blow that he didn't think it could be so unkind as to deal him another.

But to Hutch, the assault wasn't just a single event but a series of vicious attacks designed to destroy them. The bullets were only the beginning. Starsky's heart stopping, the infection and fever, and the assassination attempt in the hospital were all part of a seemingly unending chain. Fate, it appeared to Hutch, wasn't very fond of them, in general. He stared at Starsky, feeling tension pull at his shoulders.

"And what else is bustin' your chops?" Starsky asked, starting to eat a little of the omelet Hutch had prepared for him.

Hutch looked down at his own breakfast. His eggs mocked him for his lack of appetite. He pushed his plate away. "I don't...I don't _know_. I just—look, if I figure it out, you'll be the first one I tell, all right?"

Starsky looked a little surprised at his outburst. "Okay, okay already."

Hutch had the grace to feel ashamed. _Great going._ "You wanted to talk about...what happened," he said in oblique apology. "We never really did, much. Seems like you were always either drugged or there were too many people around. But I'm willing to listen."

Starsky cocked his head, and Hutch got the distinct impression he was weighing something in his head. Whether or not to tell Hutch how bad it had been, for him, he guessed with a shiver. Maybe Hutch didn't want to hear it. But he steeled himself to listen.

"I'm here, buddy," Hutch said encouragingly.

Starsky put down his fork and gave him an exasperated look. "Yeah, right. All night last night I looked over at you and it was like you were somewhere else. You still are. And you're so wound up all the time. I thought...once we were here, just the two of us, you would...let go, a little. Loosen up."

The unexpected attack felt like a shot to the gut. Hutch rose hastily and started clearing the dishes, unable to respond.

"Hutch, dammit."

"Are you gonna eat that?" Hutch asked roughly, pointing to Starsky's plate. He didn't look at his partner.

"Stubborn, mule-headed Blintz," Starsky muttered. Hutch reached for his plate and Starsky grabbed his wrist then gasped in pain.

Hutch waited helplessly, unwilling to use his strength to try to pull away. Finally, Starsky released him, took a shallow breath and said quietly, "Sit down."

Hutch sat. He found a fascinating design in the whorl of the tabletop and focused on it, unable to raise his eyes.

"I don't remember much," Starsky said deliberately. "I remember we were laughing about something. I remember you yelling for me to get down. That's all. I don't remember getting hit."

Hutch was so surprised his eyes shot up involuntarily to meet Starsky's.

"Dobey gave me your report to read, and I talked to some of the guys when they stopped by to visit. They told me the rest. They said..." Starsky turned his head slightly, looking at a point over Hutch's shoulder. "They said you had blood all over you. My blood," he added, unnecessarily.

Hutch's eyes closed, and then squeezed more tightly shut as the memory rushed back. There was a roaring in his ears, it sounded like shouting, like a babble of voices all calling out in panic.

"—utch. Hutch." Starsky had been repeating his name in a worried tone for some time, Hutch realized. He was surprised to discover he had left his chair and was across the room facing the window. He had no memory of standing up. _I'm losing it. And I can't afford to lose it._ With a tremendous effort pushed it all down and away, taking one shuddering breath to steady himself before turning back. Hutch walked over to the table and sat down again, then set himself and raised his eyes to look at his partner. Starsky's face was all pale concern. _Can't afford to worry him. Got to keep it together. Just a little while longer._

"Starsk. I can't talk about that. Not now, not yet," Hutch said, frankly, letting Starsky read it in his gaze. "Maybe not ever," he admitted. "Can't you understand?" he heard himself pleading.

Starsky regarded him, then said, "I don't think I'll settle for 'not ever,' but for now...okay. Because you asked so nice." He gave a small, lopsided grin.

Hutch smiled weakly. "You know, you really should eat some of that omelet," he said.

"I will if you will," Starsky said.

Hutch stood with a sigh and retrieved his abandoned plate of eggs from the counter. They ate a little, neither of them showing a tremendous interest in it. Hutch roused himself and talked a little about the party. He speculated on the looks he'd seen Huggy exchange with Linda Baylor, and Starsky laughed.

"Those two?" Starsky said, "I thought they were going to start a rumble over by the pool table."

"But did you notice the expression on Huggy's face when she threatened to cuff him to damned thing? I think, where there's heat..." Hutch said, smiling as he drank his juice, relieved when Starsky caught his grin and threw it back at him.

~ o ~

Monday was Starsky's first day at physical therapy. Hutch stopped in front of the hospital entrance in the borrowed Caddy that one of Huggy's 'cousins' had lent him for a modest fee. He watched as Starsky struggled with the heavy door, and Hutch's fingers twitched with the desire to leap out and help him.

But his reward was the grateful look Starsky gave him when he finally stood on the curb. "See you around," was all he said. He turned and walked slowly up to the hospital doors like a brave little kid going to the principal's office.

Hutch tried to distract himself with errands. There was plenty to do, to shop for. He hadn't had much time getting the house set up. It had seemed like during the past month he was either at the hospital visiting Starsky, or at work, or in the borrowed car shuttling between the two destinations. And home, occasionally, although not enough. His plants had suffered from the neglect, and almost all of his jungle had died. He would've cared about it more, but it seemed so inconsequential next to the miracle of Starsky not being cold and under the ground.

 _Don't think about that._ He was learning there were some things that were just too risky to think about even for a moment, and that event in their past sure the hell was one of them.

The other was their future.

 _Toilet paper, paper towels, dishwashing detergent, groceries. Two pairs of swim trunks and some suntan lotion, because that beach sure looks inviting. Have to get sun block for Starsky though, or his wounds...._

 _Don't think about that._

He had at least two hours to kill, so he buzzed over to Venice to pick up some more of his clothes, and the last of the plants still living—a lone spider plant, and a couple of ferns. He loaded them into the car and took a last reconnoiter. His apartment looked dusty and empty. It made him uncomfortable, how abandoned his life looked, read here in the scattered belongings shifted hastily to find what he needed, or in the piles of dirty dishes and unwashed clothing. He turned his back on it, and headed out the door.

He was still five minutes early returning to pick Starsky up, so he sat in the car and tried to read the paper. On page two, his name was mentioned in connection with the investigation into Gunther Industries, and he winced at the idiocy of the press. Keeping him in the spotlight would only serve to endanger him. And he couldn't afford to be a target anymore; he had Starsky to look after.

Again, the bleak wash of melancholy hit him, like a bitter draught of cold coffee on an empty stomach. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight it.

 _I'm just tired. I needed this week off. Maybe away from the city I can finally get some good sleep._

He hadn't been sleeping. He found each night he was unwilling to go to bed, for some reason. Maybe it was an effort to avoid the dark thoughts that always jumped him when his head hit the pillow, as if they were just waiting for him to relax his guard. So he would sit up, usually reading or fiddling with his guitar, until he was so tired that sleep swallowed him whole as soon as he fell into bed.

But even then he found he would wake up in the night, and force himself back to sleep only to wake up again. Dreams, bad ones, were sometimes the cause, but usually he would just find himself suddenly wide awake for no apparent reason. He would be dead tired, but still filled with this nervous energy that made it impossible to sink down again.

A knock startled him from his thoughts, and he lowered his hand, embarrassed at being caught out. The embarrassment was soon followed by dismay; he couldn't afford to let someone get the drop on him.

Fortunately, this time it was Starsky. Hutch leaned over and pushed the passenger door open hard, knowing that after his session Starsky would be in no shape to argue the amenity.

And he wasn't. As he lowered himself slowly into his seat, one look at his profile told Hutch it had been worse than even Starsky had expected. His face was rigid, bleached of color, and his lips were pulled tight as he painstakingly lifted his feet into the car.

Without a word, Hutch got out and ran around the front to close the heavy door. He was back in his seat in a flash, and raised his hand to put it on Starsky's shoulder, but hesitated. He wasn't sure Starsky's punished frame could take even that much. He lowered his hand and rested it on Starsky's leg.

"Get me away from here, Hutch," came Starsky's rough plea. Hutch wasted no time getting the car started and headed back to the beach house. His own lips were pressed tight, his heart a storm of rage and pain for what his partner had to suffer.

After a few blocks, Starsky turned his head and said, tightly, "Pull over, huh?" Hutch cast him a glance and did as he asked, turning into a sandy parking lot along the beach. He stopped the car and stared out the window, unwilling to pressure Starsky with a prying look.

"Bad, I guess," Hutch said.

"Yeah," Starsky agreed, with a strange hiccough. And then he forced a harsh breath from his lungs, and another, and Hutch realized his friend was trying desperately not to cry. Hutch put his hand on the seat between them, and Starsky's came out to cling to his, grabbing it hard and squeezing it as he took shattered breaths, covering his eyes.

It went on for what felt like an eternity, Hutch helpless to ease him, the dim voice in his head chanting, _All your fault, all your fault. Should've been you._

Finally, Starsky drew a shaky breath and said, "Okay. Sorry." He drew away his hand and Hutch saw him wipe his eyes and face roughly, scrubbing at them.

Hutch looked out at the green waves. "Sorry for what? For taking three slugs to the chest, or for surviving against all odds?" he said, his voice bitter. "For fighting to get your life back? Don't apologize to me, I'm not the one they're torturing."

He caught Starsky's grateful glance out of the corner of his eye. Relieved he'd managed to say something right for once, Hutch started up the Caddy and drove them quietly home.

~ o ~

Starsky was subdued that afternoon, and raised no complaints as Hutch hustled about getting him comfortable out on the private deck in back. Hutch brought him some juice but Starsky refused lunch. Eventually, there was nothing left to do, and Hutch made one last unnecessary check of the umbrella and the angle of the sun before reluctantly turning to go back inside. Starsky's quiet voice stopped him.

"Hang out a little, Hutch." Starsky started to wave a hand and then appeared to think better of it.

Hutch sat down on the deck by the stairs and leaned his head against the rail. The sun was warm but the sea breeze was up. He felt it playing with his hair, and he closed his eyes. He didn't want to look at Starsky and see once again the pinched, haunted mask that had fallen over the beloved face.

 _When will this end?_ Hutch thought despairingly.

"Sorry I fell to pieces on you," Starsky apologized again.

Hutch cleared his throat to repeat there was no need, but Starsky beat him to the punch.

"Not too sorry, really. I guess you had to see it, to know that it's gonna be rough for a while. But the physiotherapist said I've got a good shot at getting my mobility back. Really, Hutch. It's gonna happen. That's all that matters."

 _All that matters._ Hutch had to turn his head away, for the dangerous emotions were swimming once again near the surface. When he thought he had them under control, he replied, his voice strained, "That's not all that matters." He didn't elaborate.

"Okay, yeah. But it's what matters to me now, all right?" Starsky was begging him to accept it.

And how could Hutch refuse? "Of course," he agreed.

"Good. Then you'll help? Because it's not just taking me to physio. On the days I don't go in, and on the weekends, we'll have to work at it then, too. Gina says only a total commitment will do the job. That means you might have to...do things. Things that aren't so comfortable for me. Ya dig?"

Hutch's heart sank low, a cold swift fall that left him weak. "L-like what?"

"Nothing complicated. Stretches. Rubbing stuff into the scars, breaking up the tissue. Gina said she'd show you how...." Starsky's voice ran out, and he sounded suddenly uncertain.

"Okay. No problem," Hutch said, making his voice firm. "I already know a little about massage, took that class back when I was dating Phylicia, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Starsky laughed a little, sounding relieved. "Boy, she had you jumping through hoops, rubbing her back every night with that smelly stuff because of her C-spine problem."

Hutch smiled slightly. Funny how Phylicia felt like a universe away from now. Unimportant. His priorities had shifted radically since then. They'd shifted out of the known hemisphere, far away from girlfriends, and dinner dates, and trying to find 'the One.' Hutch sighed and closed his eyes again, tilting his head away from the sun, and into the wind.

~ o ~

Starsky crawled into bed soon after their conversation and napped heavily into the twilight. Hutch found a couple of good spots for his plants and gave them some gentle, apologetic care. Then he set about making a feast.

He hadn't made the Paul Muni special for years, but the recipe was still in his head, filed next to what Starsky liked in his favorite burrito, or what tone of voice to use to irritate him out of his mind. The filing cabinet in there was stuffed to the gills with information about Starsky. There wasn't room for a hell of lot else, at this point.

So Hutch dug out the recipe card in his head and had the roast on the table by the time he heard the first mumbled groanings coming from Starsky's bedroom. Hutch went in with a glass of water and a pain pill.

Starsky took the water but waved away the pill. "I feel okay, actually. I mean, I'm sore, but it's a good kinda sore." He slung his legs over the side of the bed and stood warily, then straightened. "Hey, I can stand up straighter, too."

Hutch felt a small glow, alien and unlooked-for. He sounded a little breathy as he said, "Soup's on."

"Yeah?" Starsky grinned. "Man, I could eat a cow. Or a pig. Or maybe a cow _and_ a pig, wrapped inside a horse."

Hutch made a face and led the way to the dining room. Along with the pot roast and potatoes and vegetables, there were candles on the table, which was set with an actual tablecloth he'd dug out of the linen closet. And since Starsky wasn't taking the pain killer, Hutch quickly ducked into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of red wine.

The look on Starsky's face was priceless. He looked at the table, then up at Hutch, then back at the table. "Jesus, Hutch. You didn't mess around."

Hutch smiled and ceremoniously pulled out a chair. Starsky settled into it and leaned over, smelling the roast.

They dug in. Words were not exchanged, beyond 'pass that over, would ya?' and intermittent mumbles of approval. They ate like they hadn't in months, which wasn't too far from the truth. When Hutch pushed back from the table at last, his belly was popped out like balloon.

Starsky let out a huge belch then apologized sheepishly. "Man, that was terrific, Hutch. Thanks for the spread." His eyes flickered and he looked down at the tablecloth. "You've been so good to me, you know? I just want you to know I...I really appreciate it. You're the best." He looked up and smiled softly.

"You're worth it," Hutch said, his voice a little hoarse. Looking into his partner's bashful, smiling face, he felt a keen razor slice his heart, the edge of the blade so fine he felt the cut only after the bleeding had started. His fork started chattering against his plate, and he set it down hastily and lifted the wine bottle, hoping his slip hadn't been noticed. _What the hell is wrong with me? I'm a nutcase._

Fortunately, Starsky had closed his eyes and was still smiling. Hutch said, "You want a little more wine?"

Starsky shook his head, "Nah, I'm good." His eyes opened to give Hutch an earnest look. "I _am_ good, Hutch. Getting better."

Hutch held onto his crazily swinging emotions, forcing himself to respond encouragingly, "That's great, buddy. You're on your way."

"Nope." Starsky smiled again. " _We're_ on our way."

~ o ~

This was the day-to-day: drop Starsky at physical therapy after breakfast. Drive into work and get reamed by the Justice guys once again for his 'loose-cannon investigative approach.' Endeavor not to smack the lily-white agents into the cinderblock wall of their makeshift office. Check in with Dobey and put in a half-day hunting the back trail of the Gunther beast, the spoor stinking with blood and a timeless evil. Haul himself away to shop for groceries, cook dinner, do laundry, sit on the beach and watch Starsky take his first, tentative steps into the breaking waves.

And check constantly for the comforting dangle of his Python. Always the revolver was with him, and the five hours or so when Hutch wasn't with Starsky were the bad hours, when he gnawed anxiously on the bones of dread.

While Starsky was sleeping, Hutch would stare at the clock, wondering how long it would be before he gave up on trying to sleep and stepped outside to watch the black water pounding endlessly onto the shore. The ocean's mystery turned ominous and threatening at night. Sharks. Beasts with tentacles. Monsters from the deep.

There was no place safe.

Sitting on the chaise lounge, Hutch would contemplate the darkness. He recognized he was getting strung out, but was helpless to figure out how to help himself. He also knew he had to tell Starsky, eventually, about how his feelings had changed. It was only right. They didn't keep secrets from each other. But at the same time, Hutch was unwilling to load Starsky with the news while Starsky was still dependent on him. It would put him in an unfair bind. He might even feel obligated to do something about it.

The last weeks had been especially difficult for Hutch. Up until recently, the natural self-absorption caused by his injury had made Starsky less than aware of Hutch's difficulties. But now that Starsky was improving, and looking outside of himself once again, it was obvious he was picking up on Hutch's strange mood. And because he was a good friend, Starsky had been, in his own way, trying to comfort Hutch, seeking to fix what he obviously sensed was broken.

Unfortunately, his approach to fixing things only exacerbated Hutch's problems. Starsky was being too affectionate, piling on the casual touches and warm smiles that had made Hutch fall in love with him in the first place, tempting Hutch to read more into the gestures than simple affection. And loving Starsky all the more, every day, only made that other strange sense of anxiety flare wildly.

It was painful, this complete lack of balance, and the wild veering of his emotions, back and forth. But seeing Starsky and noting the tiny triumphs and gradual progress of his rehabilitation made it worth it. Marking that last week Starsky could hold a glass full of water at arm's length, where a few days earlier he could not. Noting the new ease with which he rose from the table to grab a deck of cards for a couple of hands of gin.

Everything else was for this.

Starsky was getting better. How much better remained to be seen, but Hutch had marked that particular box 'Don't open 'til Christmas,' and he had schooled himself not to look down the road at all, but down at his feet.

~ o ~

On Friday, Hutch took the day off and went with Starsky to the hospital to meet with Gina, his physical therapist. From the way Starsky had waxed excitedly about her, Hutch expected to find her pretty, pert and engaging. Instead, she was beautiful in a different way; stern, with handsome gray eyes and long, prematurely silver hair pulled into a braid.

Starsky was taken off to his ultrasound bath, joking that they could come get him when he was cooked. Hutch understood the reference, remembering vividly the giant, stainless steel tubs they used for the underwater therapy.

Gina led Hutch aside into a treatment room and closed the door. "So," she said, "I hear you took a course in massage therapy. What flavor?"

Hutch shrugged. "A variation of Shiatsu. It was a while ago, I'm not sure how much I remember."

Gina nodded, her braid bobbing on her shoulder. "That's a good foundation. What I'm going to teach you today is a slightly different approach, specifically designed to prevent the scars from binding to the underlying muscle and connective tissue. Do you understand the principle?"

"Yeah. I'm familiar with the procedure, actually. From a...an incident I had."

"Really?" Gina tilted her head. "Well, let's start there, then. It's best to have an example to work from. Is your injury somewhere you can reach?"

"What, you want to work on _me_?" Hutch asked, dismayed.

"Of course," Gina replied, her tone brooking no argument.

Hutch sighed and took off his shirt so she could look at the scar just shy of his heart.

"That's a beaut," Gina said dryly. "Looks like it was a close thing."

Hutch shrugged. "A miss is as good as a mile."

"Yeah?" she said doubtfully. "Well, look here," she circled the scar with a long finger. "The scar is keloided a bit. Do you experience a tightness or pulling here, restricting your movement?"

"A little. Not bad."

"Well, it's perfect for our demonstration. Lie down on the table," she said, and while Hutch reluctantly lay down, she washed her hands in the sink, returning with a white tube of ointment. "This unguent contains agents that will soften the skin. I'll give you a couple extra to take with you." She put some on her hand and leaned over him. "It's cold," she warned with a twinkle, and then put her fingers on his scar.

At first she just smoothed the lotion in, but then she pressed hard on the puckered edge of it, pushing outward. Hutch gave a start of pain.

"Yes, it's uncomfortable," she said.

 _Thanks for the understatement,_ Hutch thought, gritting his teeth.

"If you do it right, firmly, with exaggerating movement, you can actually feel the tissue tearing a bit. That's good. The scar is connecting layers of skin, which is what we don't want. We especially don't want it building up between the muscles and other tissue." She dug in hard with her thumb, and Hutch clenched his teeth. Then she stopped and handed him the tube.

"Give it a try. It might be awkward to get the pressure you need from this angle, but see if you can feel it with your fingers."

With a sigh, Hutch put a little of the ointment on his own fingers and started working his scar. She put her hand over his and pressed hard, showing him the movement and the correct amount of pressure.

By the time they were done, Hutch was dreading more than ever the necessity of doing this painful thing to Starsky, whose wounds were larger and so much more tender.

"Okay, think you've got the hang of it?" Gina asked, giving him an encouraging smile. Hutch nodded. He got off the table and thanked her.

"How did you get that scar, if you don't mind my asking?"

Hutch was surprised at the question. "Starsky and I are cops. Partners," he added, wondering why Starsky hadn't already told her.

"I figured it was something like that. Dave is our first cop, you know? We usually get professional athletes here, because we specialize in sports medicine."

Hutch already knew, of course. It was why he had chosen this facility. If anyone could get Starsky street-ready, it was these guys.

"Well, cops have to be athletes too, you know," he said, a little defensively.

"Oh, I can imagine," she replied. Her eyes glinted at him, and suddenly he realized she was a very pretty woman. He was attracted to her. It was an incongruous thought, and caught him completely off-guard. He was hesitantly returning her smile when there was a quick knock at the door, and it opened.

Starsky walked in without knocking and, apparently noting that Hutch was shirtless, gave him a funny look. Hutch hastily reached down and recovered his shirt, putting it on.

"Thanks again for the demonstration, Gina," Hutch babbled, then nodded to Starsky. "Good luck, buddy," he said under his breath, and walked out. He heard Starsky mutter something to Gina, and her answering laugh.

As Hutch went back to the car, he realized that Gina was the first person to touch him, skin to skin, in months.

Except for Starsky, of course.

With that disturbing thought, Hutch went on his errands.

~ o ~

"Gina's great, huh?" Starsky asked him in the car. He was holding an icepack to his chest.

"Yeah, she is," Hutch agreed. "Funny, she didn't know we were cops. How come you didn't tell her?"

Hutch caught Starsky's shrug and accompanying wince. "I dunno. You told her, though?"

Hutch paused a moment before responding, "Yeah, why not?" But his mind was racing a little with a strange realization. Whenever they were on the make, he and Starsky had found that telling girls they were undercover cops was a sure fire way of getting the interesting ones into bed. Something about the authority, and their badges and guns, was a real turn-on for them. But Starsky hadn't told Gina. _Maybe he doesn't find her attractive._

Sure, that could be it. Gina was beautiful, really, but not very sweet-looking. Starsky tended to go for the cute ones. _But what about Rosey? Rosey wasn't cute. Rosey was beautiful, and earnest. And Gina probably wouldn't be turned off by a chest full of scars._

"So you like her, huh?" Starsky's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"She's okay," Hutch said dismissively, then added, wryly, "for a cruel-handed witch."

He felt a pang of guilt for bad-mouthing Gina, but was glad when Starsky laughed lightly.

Starsky shifted the bag on his chest and then complained when cold water leaked out, soaking his pants. The subject of Gina didn't come up again. But Hutch continued puzzling in his mind why Starsky hadn't been interested in her. They tended to have similar tastes in women—in one particular case, disastrously so.

 _Maybe he's not ready. God knows I'm not. Not ready to see him with someone. Truth is, I might never be ready._

The bleak realization dogged him all the way home.

~ o ~

Saturday afternoon was a beautiful summer day, the kind that stays in memory, glowing with the perfection of remembered youth. The ocean was deep cobalt under the blue, cloudless sky, and the sun turned the white sand blisteringly hot. Hutch and Starsky both put on flip-flops and slogged carefully down to the water's edge. A few joggers ran by, and the occasional bikinied beach bunny gave them the eye.

Starsky was wearing his t-shirt in spite of the heat, claiming he didn't want to add sunburn to his scars. Hutch had a feeling that wasn't the only reason, but he let it lie. It was too perfect a day to spoil the mood. Of course, Hutch was also wearing a shirt, but the purpose of his was to cover the Magnum that was tucked neatly beneath his left arm.

Hutch spread out the towels and chunked the sun umbrella deep into the sand, opening it and angling it to give Starsky the lion's share of the shade. He applied some sun block to his face and neck, and then he kicked off his flip-flops and walked down to the water to cool his overheated feet. Starsky soon joined him

The glassy waves were of the perfect height for bodysurfing, and suddenly Hutch yearned to be out there, feeling the salt water on his skin and the lift of a wave beneath him. He turned to Starsky, and then decisively removed his shirt, unsnapping his holster harness.

"Hang onto this for me, would you?" He handed the shirt and gun to his surprised partner.

Technically, of course, Starsky was on paid disability and shouldn't be holding his weapon for him, but Hutch didn't think that was the origin of the startled look.

"Sure. I got your back." Starsky smiled, looking oddly joyful.

Hutch's heart gave an alarming thump. _Christ. He needs it, misses it as much as I do._ Hutch turned quickly to hide his expression, and practically ran down to the water.

He sloshed out to waist-depth, and then dove under the incoming waves until he was far enough out to wait for a good one. As he bobbed in the water, he felt the saltwater drip from his hairline to burn in his eyes. _I'm so tired. So, so tired._

Hutch ducked under a couple of iffier waves until a nice clean one came rolling toward him. He turned and kicked, timing it perfectly, and then he was pushed up from below, his arms stretched before him as the wave lifted him like a strong hand and carried him down to the shallows.

Hutch stayed out for a long time, knowing he was flirting with serious sunburn, and also knowing he absolutely shouldn't be leaving Starsky alone, but he was unable to tear himself away from this much-needed break from his duties. Finally, he caught a big one that turned him dangerously, tumbling him until he was no longer sure what direction was up. At last it let him go and he rose to the surface, choking and spitting out ocean, with sand dragging inside his shorts. The incident made him recognize that they were on a private stretch of beach with no lifeguards, and he shuddered to think of Starsky trying to jump in and haul his senseless body from the water. So he stumbled out of the surf and looked around.

The current had pulled him down the beach a ways, and he suddenly felt anxious. He located the umbrella and started trotting toward it, relieved when he saw Starsky sitting calmly beneath, reading one of his Stephen King books.

Hutch approached from downwind to avoid kicking sand into his partner's face. He plopped down on his towel and started digging some of the sand from the lining of his shorts.

"Have a good swim?" Starsky asked. He subtly indicated a shirt-wrapped bundle by his left hand.

Hutch nodded. "Yeah. Beyond great." He reached over for the sun block and poured some on, knowing it was in the nature of closing the barn door. The block had an alcohol base that stung his already pink skin. Then he squeezed the shirt around the lump and dropped it by his right leg. _Back on shift._

"It's about time for lunch," Starsky said, "and then we have to, you know...do my therapy."

The quiet reminder sent a chill of unease down Hutch's spine, but he nodded. "I'm getting a little too burned to stay out, anyway. Let's go back up."

Hutch strapped the Magnum back on, the harness chafing against his burned skin, and then hung his shirt over it. They gathered their things, and minced back up the hot sands to dump everything on the deck. Starsky insisted he wanted to make lunch, so Hutch picked up Starsky's book and read one of the stories.

In it, a little kid was afraid of his closet, with the door always open just a crack. The little boy was certain there was a boogeyman in there, but he couldn't convince his parents. Of course, it turned out the poor kid was right.

 _There **is**_ _a boogeyman._ Hutch had met him, face to face, too many times to count. The last time had been the worst.

The phone rang and Hutch jumped, and then went to get it. It was Rachel, Starsky's mom, calling to finalize her plans to come out for a visit. They talked easily; Hutch had been in contact with her so many times over the past few months he knew her long-distance number by heart. He always tried to be truthful, but not too graphic, when giving her the latest. Thankfully, he no longer had to be an intermediary.

"It's Rachel," Hutch called out. As he started to put down the phone, he heard her tinny admonishment that she call him 'mom,' already, and wouldn't she be proud to have a nice boy like him as a son, even if he was a goy?

Hutch smiled bitterly to himself. _Believe me Rachel, you wouldn't want me to think of you as my 'mom.'_ The joke was double-edged, for if she were to learn exactly how much Hutch loved her son, he was pretty sure the offer would be retracted. And she certainly didn't fit his current definition of 'mother.' She was far too nice a lady for that.

Hutch wandered over to the kitchen and took over the lunch tasks that Starsky had put aside. By the time he was off the phone their chicken salad sandwiches were sitting neatly on the table next to a couple of cold beers.

"She need a ride from the airport?" Hutch asked as he munched on his sandwich.

"Naw. She's renting a car. She says she wants to be 'independently mobile.' Starsky rolled his eyes. Hutch shuddered a little to think of Rachel's New York driving skills turned loose on the Bay City freeway system, but he made no comment.

They lingered over lunch, both dreading the upcoming ordeal. But finally, there was nothing to do but clear the dishes and go out to the walled deck where Starsky could stretch out on the lounger for his torture session.

Hutch held the tube of lotion in his hand, not sure if he was up to the test of causing his partner more pain. Starsky caught his hesitancy and said gruffly, "Just ignore me if I make a little noise." He stripped off his shirt and lay belly-down on the chaise, which Hutch had adjusted to be as flat as possible. The scars on Starsky's back were red, shiny craters. Three of them in a jagged row, the second veering mere inches from his spine. Hutch's hands shook a little as he opened the tube of lotion. To distract himself, he scanned the ingredients. Aloe, lanolin, and some others he didn't recognize. With a sigh, he squeezed some onto his hands, rubbing them together to warm it. Then he sat down by Starsky's hip, placed his palms on Starsky's back, and began the massage.

He started slow, not applying too much pressure, focusing on the taut muscles around the scars, but not touching the bullet wounds directly. Starsky's skin was smooth under his hands, but the flesh was a little too loose. He'd still not gained back all his bulk, lost to the weeks of illness, bad hospital food, and the nausea caused by the pain medication.

Starsky groaned a couple of times appreciatively, but after a while he gave a grunt of impatience, and Hutch knew he had to begin. He added more lotion to his fingertips and started working it into the scars.

"Harder, Hutch," Starsky reminded him, his words muffled in the cushion.

Hutch dug in. The first real groan of pain made the hairs stand up on his arms, but he kept going, working the lotion in and pressing at the scarred ridges around the craters just like he'd been taught. When Starsky held his breath, Hutch eased up a little, knowing instinctively his partner was at his limit.

Finally, it was over. Or half-over; with dread, Hutch knew he still had to do Starsky's chest, where the scarring was more intensive due to the surgeries.

Starsky flopped over and, without pausing, Hutch began. He was right—it _was_ worse. For now he could see Starsky's face contorting in pain, as well as hear the evidence of it. He didn't want to be doing this, putting his hands on Starsky to give him pain. He had yearned to do the exact opposite. Somewhere, he imagined he could hear the gods of irony laughing and laughing.

Hutch was perspiring from the heat of the late afternoon sun, and the exertion, and from the anxiety of his ugly task. He felt sweat drip slowly down his hairline to sting his eyes. He closed them, focusing on the sensation of the tissue under his fingertips and palms. This was Starsky, this bunched, ribbed flesh. He continued to carefully monitor the sound of Starsky's breathing, stopping when Starsky stopped, and trying desperately to ignore the grunts of pain. After a while, Hutch started to feel the faint crackle of the tissue breaking. It was working, then. The pain was worth it.

He finished with the final scar, the one highest on Starsky's chest, and Hutch's hands spread, almost of their own volition, into a soothing stroke. He was hardly aware of the change, absently moving his hands sensually over the soft hair on Starsky's chest, made even silkier by the lotion. His hands smoothed up and around, and were passing over Starsky's pectoral muscles when Starsky made a sound completely different from his previous gasps of pain. Hutch's hands froze and he looked down.

Starsky was staring at him, a startled look. Hutch's eyes traveled down to his hands, and then lower, to where Starsky's swim trunks had taken on a decided bulge.

Hutch still hadn't moved his hands from Starsky's chest. In fact, they seemed glued there. Then Starsky's voice, soft and embarrassed and faintly sardonic, floated up to him.

"It's been a while since I've—sorry."

Hutch felt a tingle of heat in his groin and quickly suppressed his wayward thoughts. He lifted his hands slowly, cleared his throat and said, "Guess maybe we should go out and find some willing ladies." He looked away, certain his abhorrence of the idea was writ large on his forehead.

"Oh, yeah," Starsky responded sarcastically, "I'm sure to find at least a couple of foxy chicks who have a kink for ugly."

Hutch's eyes snapped back to Starsky's face, and then down at his chest. "It's not—"

"If you say 'it's not that bad' I swear I'll paste you a good one," Starsky said, his voice low and angry.

"It's...it doesn't bother _me_ ," Hutch said quietly, startled even as the words left his lips. He felt like his brain was temporarily dislocated from his mouth, because he couldn't stop himself from continuing, "Nothing ugly about you."

Something glinted at the back of Starsky's eyes and was gone. Hutch was surprised to realize it almost had looked like desire. His heart gave a hearty bump of excitement.

But Starsky covered, saying, his tone facetious, "I suppose next you'll be offering to help me with it, just like you take care of everything else around here." He moved to ease himself off the lounger.

Without thinking, Hutch found himself putting down a hand to stop him, pressing him flat. And then he reached down, as if in a dream, and cupped the hardness waiting behind the swim trunks. He heard Starsky gasp and felt the cock surge beneath his palm, and Hutch swallowed, raising his eyes to see his friend's reaction.

It wasn't what he was expecting. There was confusion, yes, and a hint of apprehension in the eyes that matched the deep blue of the sea behind him. But they also held a startled, lambent need. The lids dropped down, hiding the rest. But Hutch had seen.

 _God, he might actually let me._ Hutch took a shallow breath, afraid of making a sound, and closed his hand around the shaft, feeling its delightful hardness through the material.

"Hutch..." Starsky croaked, a sound of protest.

But Hutch was trapped in the moment; one he knew would hang perfectly etched in his mind for the rest of his life, regardless of what happened next. He leaned down and whispered, "I'm tired, Starsk. I'm tired of seeing you hurting. Let me give you something other than pain, just for once—" His voice choked off then, and he waited, still squeezing slowly up and down Starsky's erection.

Starsky moaned again, suddenly giving an abrupt jerk of his head, his eyes still closed. Hutch recommenced breathing. He lifted his hand and hooked his fingers under the band of Starsky's trunks, slowly tugging them down until the front rode up under Starsky's balls.

Starsky's cock was beautiful; to Hutch, who had hardly let himself ever dream of this possibility—of seeing it, touching it—it was more than beautiful, it was perfect. Thick, with the faintest hint of an upward curve, and flushed deep red, the red of an almost ripe plum.

Hutch looked up to find Starsky had rested his arm over his face. Maybe he didn't want to watch what Hutch was about to do. Or maybe he was ashamed of his need. Both possibilities were something Hutch could live with, for this one chance to touch him this way.

Hutch grabbed the tube of lotion and coated his hands, rubbing them together before he stood and switched to the other side of the lounger. Starsky shifted to make room. _So, not an unwilling participant, after all,_ Hutch thought.

At this angle, he could best use both hands. He wasted no time taking the thick flesh and working the lotion over it, feeling the tension of Starsky's hips beside his thigh, and hearing the near-silent moan as Hutch gripped him firmly and stroked.

He wanted his touch to be liquid fire, to burn Starsky with pleasure to erase the pain of the last hour. He wished he had the courage to lean down and take Starsky's cock in his mouth, but feared such an action would bring an abrupt halt to this incredible event. Instead, Hutch pumped Starsky's cock evenly, his thumb traveling slickly over the distended vein that bulged and throbbed in time with Starsky's heart. _So beautiful._

Sweat burned into Hutch's eyes as he stroked Starsky's cock, taking the full, heavy balls in his other hand and coating them as well before squeezing gently. Starsky moaned and jerked his hips.

"Please." The one, whispered word from Starsky made the heat of the sun seem a feeble, faded glow in comparison to the fire that burned in Hutch when he heard it. His own cock leapt and throbbed within the confinement of his swim trunks.

"Is this good, babe?" Hutch asked, and he rolled Starsky's balls in his left hand, testing how much pressure his friend enjoyed. Apparently, from his deep moans, he enjoyed having his nuts played with as much as Hutch did. Hutch pulled at them, tugging them down gently and stretching the sac, while his right hand continued stroking the shaft up and down, now faster, the wet sound of his hand on Starsky's cock making Hutch even more hot.

"Yes...God, Hutch...Hutch..." Starsky's arm dropped from his face and his legs moved wider as he tried to pump up into Hutch's hand, increasing the pace. Hutch matched him, jerking him faster, watching the expression on Starsky's face. Then he reached below to enfold Starsky's sac within his hand, pushing it upward, and slid his thumb down to press underneath. Starsky's eyes popped open and he cried out sharply with pleasure, pumping his hips erratically in excitement before emitting a deep, guttural groan as he came.

A high, streaming ribbon of white pulsed from his cockhead. Hutch was so turned on he almost came himself, seeing it. He carefully continued milking the shaft, loving the feel of it, so slick now, with Starsky's come coating his hand. When he felt that final shudder he stopped, but kept his hand on Starsky's cock for a moment longer before cradling it tenderly to rest on Starsky's thigh.

Hutch eyes traveled up Starsky's body to see his chest still rising and falling rapidly. It glistened with sweat, lotion and his semen. He exuded sex, pure and masculine. Hutch's cock thumped once before his eyes continued up to meet Starsky's. It was time to pay the piper.

"That was...something," Starsky muttered. His eyes were questioning, but not, as Hutch had feared, angry or evasive.

Hutch swallowed. "I'm glad I made you feel good," he said at last, hoping the simple honesty of his words would disguise his longing for more.

They stared at each other, and Hutch felt the trembling edges of something wild and fierce humming in his veins. Something in those eyes...but, no. Sanity returned to him when he remembered just who he was looking at. His partner. His very masculine, very proud partner, who had a deep fondness for cute and perky. And _female_.

The moment broke when Hutch leaned down for a beach towel, using it to wipe his hands. He hesitated, and then dropped it partly on Starsky's chest. As much as he would like to attend to the cleanup, if only for a chance to touch Starsky one more time, he felt it would be pushing a boundary that had been erected in the last few moments.

"What about you?" Starsky asked as he reached for the towel. "Aren't you gonna let me...take care of _you_?" Starsky's eyes dropped to Hutch's crotch and his obvious, straining erection. Hutch fought a bizarre urge to cover himself.

 _'Let me,'_ _he said. God._ He'd used Hutch's own words, and Hutch longed to let him do just that, even if he'd probably blow in the first five seconds. Just thinking about it was making his cock knock like an engine with bad valves.

But the risk was too great. Hutch knew he would be unable to suppress his revealing reactions should Starsky put his hands on him.

"I-I can't, Starsk. I'm not—" _I'm not ready._

"Never mind," Starsky cut him off angrily, rolling away to sit on the other side of the lounger. Hutch saw him wiping himself down with brusque movements.

"Please don't—"

"Don't what?" Starsky interrupted him again, hitching up his trunks and turning his head slightly to growl, "Don't try to even the score? Don't try to do something nice for _you_ , for a change? Don't try to take control for one lousy minute?" His words came fast, and Hutch could hear the pent-up frustration in them.

"We're outta whack, Hutch. Have been for so long it's starting to feel like this is all we are. And this thing just now—" Starsky gestured at his crotch, "—this is just another example of how screwed up we are. That you'd do that for me, on top of everything else...hell, you'd do anything, wouldn't you? I bet you'd even blow me if I asked," Starsky ended derisively, craning his head to stare into Hutch's face.

Hutch reeled at the angry words, but he couldn't deny their truth. He knew his expression gave it away when Starsky made a sound of disbelief.

"You would! It's like you're trying to make up for everything. Make it all up to me, just because I'm the one who got shot. It's all messed up in your head with guilt and trying to make everything better all the time."

Hutch had to protest, the words pouring unchecked from his mouth, "It's _not_ guilt. Don't you know that I've always been willing to do anything for you?"

"Not _this_ ," Starsky said, sounding almost disgusted.

Hutch cringed.

"You think I want it like this, like some—" Starsky cut himself off and strode toward the kitchen door, obviously too angry to continue. Hutch sat frozen for a split second until Starsky's last words sunk in, and then he jumped up and followed, his heart beating fast. What had Starsky meant, 'like this'?

Was there another way Starsky _could_ want it?

The door was closing in Hutch's face; he caught it and hurried in after, walking through the kitchen toward the living room, trying to formulate the impossible sentence that would somehow make it right. He had barely cleared the doorjamb when Starsky yelled his name and dropped to the floor behind the heavy wooden couch. For the barest moment, Hutch thought Starsky had fallen, but then instinct kicked hard and he yanked his Magnum, raising it toward the man he saw standing in the shadowed corner of the living room.

The man holding the gun.

Time is relative. For example, the amount of time it normally takes to pull a trigger is less than half a second.

But the amount of time it actually took Hutch to fire his gun at the stranger was approximately an hour and a half. And by then, Hutch was already hit, and falling, falling.

Time was back on his side, though, when he landed on the floor, because then he had an eternity to examine Starsky's shocked face, and to memorize the wide blue of his eyes and the precise orientation of the mole on his left cheek, before Hutch swung his hand in ultra-slow motion and skidded the 4.8 pounds of Magnum across the rough wooden floor between them. It ground to a stop at the edge of Starsky's left hand.

And then time, and consciousness, gave Hutch a break.

~ o ~

 _Where was his right shoe? In his dream he was bodysurfing again, but he was worried about his shoe, which he knew was on the beach somewhere. He couldn't walk anywhere without it, and he wondered why he had left it behind. Then he realized his whole right leg was gone, so he didn't need the shoe. Maybe it had been sharks. In fact, he was pretty sure a shark had ripped his leg off, the black, merciless eyes rolling back in its head as it closed its teeth around him and sawed through flesh and bone._

 _'Don't you care about what you've done?' Hutch had asked it. No, it didn't care, didn't care that Hutch had spent the last eternity trying to walk without a leg. It was hard enough to stand without one, hard to keep his balance. And now, in the heaving waves, he was caught in a sandy, salty vortex, tumbling out of control, hopelessly lost. Just like his leg. Only if his leg was gone, why did it hurt like a sonofabitch? It had started throbbing hugely, a great balloon of pain that swelled to encompass him as he tried desperately to kick up to the surface to..._

"...breathe. C'mon breathe, Hutch, goddamnit," someone was saying to him, and Hutch took in a shuddering breath, his heart pounding with the sudden flow of oxygen. Along with air, he sucked in the taint of antiseptic and sickness.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ He was in a hospital. Again. _Starsky! Oh, God, no!_

But then he heard Starsky say something, and he realized his partner was fine; this time _he_ was the one who was laid out like a roast pig on a banquet table, the crisp hospital linen scratching under his ass.

"You with me, Blondie?" Starsky asked.

"Starsk," Hutch croaked out, catching the odor of anesthetic coming from his own breath, like the smell of alcohol. "You okay?"

"Never better, buddy. You're the one who's gonna be gimping around for a while." Starsky smiled reassuringly, sounding relieved as hell. "It's gonna be all right, though—your leg. Slug nicked the artery but it went clean through. No bone damage."

 _Gonna be okay._ And Starsky was, too. Though he looked tired and still worried. Must've been a little touch-and-go. Thank God the hospital was so close.

"You were on a talking jag when you came out of Recovery, kept saying you were going swimming," Starsky said, speaking fast, his relief still evident. "And then you fell asleep. And then after a while you stopped breathing. Scared the hell out of me."

"Dreamed," Hutch said, his throat dry. "Stay out of the water, Starsk."

Starsky gave him a funny look. "Yeah, that's what you said...among other things."

 _Other things?_ Hutch tried to ask, but his throat seized up, and he coughed a little.

"You want some water, babe?" Starsky held up a cup with a straw and Hutch automatically took some sips. Then he took a lot more; he hadn't realized how thirsty he had been.

"What happened?" Hutch asked finally, his voice in slightly better form. He reached down and felt at the bandage wrapped tightly around his thigh, wishing he could get a look at the wound and see it for himself.

"What happened was, we got the bad guy. As usual." Starsky grinned at him from his perch on the hospital chair. He was sitting on one of the arms, his feet planted on the seat, his head on a level with Hutch's.

"You...you shot him?" Hutch caught a breath.

"Hell, yeah. Jesus, the kick on that Magnum of yours... that is one heavy son of a bitch, Hutch. But you whipped it out so quick...I don't think I've ever seen anybody move that fast. You definitely get an 'assist.'" Starsky smiled and squeezed Hutch's wrist, his thumb rubbing along the back, a curiously tender gesture. He looked excited, and so damned happy, and Hutch realized he hadn't seen him like that for too goddamn long a time.

Without warning, Hutch's eyes started leaking crazily, and he turned his head away, his breathing going erratic as he tried to hold it back. But it was too late. His chest hitched and a sound escaped him.

"Babe...babe." Starsky came around the other side of the bed like a shot, and Hutch closed his eyes, ashamed, feeling the tears seeping out from between his lids.

"Hey, buddy, who you hiding from? From me? The guy who bawled his damned eyes out after his first physical therapy appointment?" Starsky's voice was gentle and rough, both, and Hutch felt oddly comforted. But at the same time, just knowing he was there to lean on was enough to turn the trickle into a flood.

"What is it, Hutch? What's got you going?" Starsky's hand landed on Hutch's forehead, pushing back his hair; again, Hutch was struck by the tenderness of the gesture, different than their usual. "Why the waterworks, huh?"

He tried to talk, to explain, the words choking from his unwilling throat, "You're okay, it's—you're okay."

"I'm fine, Hutch," Starsky said reassuringly, sounding puzzled. "The guy never got a shot off at me."

"No...no. Not now. From before." Hutch's eyes kept watering over and spilling down, and he rubbed his hand over them.

"You mean from the shooting?" Starsky asked, still sounding bewildered.

Hutch nodded.

"Well, of course I am. Where the heck have you been for the last coupla months, Blintz?"

Hutch choked again, and this time put his hand up to cover his eyes completely. "Sorry, sorry," he said.

"It's _okay_ , Hutch. Let it go."

And Hutch did. He didn't have a hell of a lot of choice in the matter. His body had decided for him that enough was enough, and his chest started heaving, which only set off more throbbing in his leg, but he couldn't help that, either. It was all out of his control.

Finally, Hutch's tears trickled to a stop. Starsky handed him some tissues and Hutch mopped up, feeling heat on his face. He tried to work up the words to explain.

"Just so long...'s been so long, and I kept waiting. And things kept going wrong, and then they seemed to finally start getting better. But then I was never sure...it seemed like you would never be fine, it would never be _over_. There was no point when I finally, really _believed_ you'd be okay again. All this time...." Frustrated at his inability to articulate it, Hutch gestured uselessly with his hands. "I couldn't stand it. You know?"

Hutch met Starsky's eyes, and saw that he did. He didn't know how, but Starsky understood.

"But now you do? Now you believe it?"

Hutch sucked in a deep breath and nodded.

"Then maybe now we can—"

Starsky was interrupted by a nurse, who came in and started bustling around, sticking a thermometer in his mouth, taking his blood pressure, giving him pills to swallow down. Starsky stood back and watched her work. Hutch noticed that Starsky was wearing his Beretta. The sight threatened his shaky equilibrium again, but in a good way.

 _He's got it covered. I can ease up._ Hutch's eyes closed, and he started to drift a little.

Starsky's voice brought him back. "Don't fall asleep on me, babe."

Hutch opened his eyes obediently. "The shooter, Starsk. Who was he?" he asked, almost idly. It almost seemed unimportant, somehow. Except for the pulsing reminder in his leg.

"You won't believe it. Some little squirrel of a guy in Gunther's organization, name of Meadows. He was acting completely alone, Hutch. Dobey questioned him, himself, and the guy cracked like a cheap safe."

"So why...?" Hutch was confused. There was no assassination plan? No great conspiracy?

"Meadows told Dobey that Gunther had rescued him from a really crappy situation, helped him made something of his life, and he was going to get back at you for putting Gunther away. Crazy, huh?"

 _No, not crazy._ Hutch could, weirdly enough, understand the fanatical loyalty, if not the reasoning.

"But you're wearing your Beretta," Hutch said, and yawned widely.

"Nice set of tonsils you got there," Starsky kidded. "Yeah, Dobey gave me a special permit to wear it. He's kinda pissed at you for getting shot, Hutch." Starsky sounded amused. "I told him you weren't much use without me around, anyway."

"Got that straight," Hutch mumbled. He was definitely getting sleepy, now. The pain in his leg was easing, and he was careful not to move it as he shifted his shoulders a bit, trying to get comfortable.

"Hutch..." Starsky's voice was oddly soft.

Curious, Hutch cracked open one eye.

"Never mind." Starsky squeezed his wrist again, and then sat back down.

As Hutch settled his head on the pillow, he heard Starsky sigh and move in his chair. He knew Starsky would be there all night, watching over him. His partner.

Gratefully, Hutch drifted away.

~ o ~

"You've _got_ to be kidding me, Starsk." Hutch was seated in the wheelchair at the curb. Before him, in stunning, Technicolor glory that threatened to sear his eyeballs in their sockets, was a souped-up, tricked out, vintage Mercury Monterey convertible, candy-apple red with black and white upholstery.

"Hutch, no _way_ was I gonna drive that tub of a Caddy. Huggy got me a great rental deal on this baby." Starsky leaned against the side of the car, stroking the shiny paint job with a decidedly sensual touch.

Fortunately, he only had eyes for the car, and missed Hutch's convulsive swallow at the oddly provocative sight.

"Besides," Starsky continued, "It's your fault for having such long legs. You can't bend the injured one yet, right? And this car has all the legroom a guy could want, plus power steering and windows." He pulled open the passenger door and gestured with a flourish.

Hutch waved his crutches at him and Starsky held them while Hutch pushed himself out of the wheelchair. He took the crutches back and hobbled over to the car, hooking himself into the passenger seat.

It was true; there was plenty of legroom. And that was a wonderful thing. As Starsky drove, Hutch tilted his head back, enjoying the wind in his face and hair.

"Oh, ho. I can't wait, I just can't wait," Starsky said, chuckling with glee.

"Wait for what?"

"Well, think about it, Hutch. You're at my mercy, now. This time, I'm the one who gets to buy the groceries and decide what _you_ get to eat. In fact, I think we'd better make a stop on the way home."

Hutch groaned in misery. _Be careful what you wish for._

Starsky was merciful, though. He didn't make Hutch eat any of the enchilada concoction that he made up for his dinner that night. Hutch got his usual salad and some pan-seared steak. After dinner, Starsky pulled out the cards and they played a couple of hands of rummy. The whole scene was strangely familiar, and yet different. Something had changed, and it wasn't just that Starsky was taking care of him, although he was doing a fine job of that.

No, it was more that there was this sense of rightness that had been missing for so long. They were a team again. It didn't matter that Hutch was on crutches, or that Starsky still couldn't lift anything very heavy. Between the two of them, they managed. Together.

The only stain on the evening was when Hutch had first hobbled his way in the door. There, on the beautiful wooden floor of the beach house, was a large, dark spot where there had been none, before. And, by the kitchen door, an even larger blotch, surrounded by more messy splatters of deep coppery brown. Square feet of it.

He finally asked Starsky about it while they were playing cards. Starsky tried to make light of it, but he could tell his friend was still a little shaken.

"Tell it to me straight," Hutch demanded.

Starsky sighed and looked away. "You went under so fast, I knew you were bleeding out," he said, his voice tight. "After I took out Meadows..." He cleared his throat. "Well, I went a little nuts. It's not like you ain't been shot before, Hutch. But this was...there was just so damned much of it. The blood. Like you blew a gasket or something. I had to put a tourniquet on your leg. And I wasn't sure I was doing it right, and it seemed to take forever for the ambulance to come, even though it couldn'ta been six minutes. And I kept thinking how unfair it would be for you to buy it now, after all we've been through." Starsky gave a deeply ironic laugh. "Stupid, huh? Like life is fair. It ain't. We both know that.

"God, that bastard. We're still paying for messing with him. That one, evil old man has taken so much from us...." Starsky finally stopped, his voice bitter.

The image of the shark flashed in Hutch's mind, and he started to understand what his dream had been telling him.

"Shark," he muttered, and Starsky looked at him quizzically.

"He's like a shark, Starsk," Hutch tried to explain. "Shark doesn't care about what it kills. It's like a force of nature. Just a big, hungry machine with no soul." Hutch shrugged. "We just didn't have the luck."

Starsky looked thoughtful, then nodded.

"But we're still here, buddy. Still kicking," Hutch said, and then grimaced at the unfortunate choice of words. His leg was propped up on a dining room chair with a pillow beneath it.

Starsky gave a snort of laughter and gathered the cards.

"I want a shower," Hutch said decisively reaching for his crutches.

"What, _now_? You can't, Hutch. You'll get your sutures wet."

"I'll stick my leg outside the tub," Hutch said stubbornly. He wanted to get clean, get the hospital smell off of him. Also, the skin on his back was flaking from his sunburn, and he wanted to scrub it off.

Starsky sighed and waved his hand. Hutch made it into the bathroom and closed the door, glad the room was large enough for him to maneuver easily. He stood on his good, left leg and stripped off his shirt and dropped his pants and underwear, then leaned on the crutches to get them off his feet. Naked, he put the left crutch in the tub and kept the right one on the bathroom floor, suspending himself until he got his left leg firmly in the tub. Smiling at his own ingenuity, he leaned the crutches against the wall and then tucked the shower curtain in front of his right leg.

It was extremely awkward, since he couldn't turn, and he didn't succeed in scrubbing his back very well, but he managed to get a pretty decent shower. Once he was done, though, he discovered he had put himself in a pickle.

For one thing, his towel was hanging six feet away on the bathroom door. And it turned out his method of navigating the high side of the claw-foot tub was no longer viable. The floor of the bathtub was now soapy and wet, too slick to trust with his weight suspended on a crutch. He tried just using the one crutch on the dry bathroom floor, and almost went down. Hutch caught himself, and then sighed in resignation.

"Starsk?" he called out. "Can you gimme a hand?"

Starsky appeared so promptly that Hutch realized he must have been idling just outside the door. Hutch hid a grin.

"What's up?"

"Need help getting out," Hutch admitted.

Starsky cocked his head. "How'd you get _in_ to begin with?"

"It's...complicated. Anyway, you gonna help me or what?" Hutch was suddenly very aware of his nakedness. He looked longingly at the towel. "You can start by handing me my towel."

Starsky gave an evil little grin, but did as he was asked. Hutch tucked it around his waist and then swung his right leg over the edge of the tub. His left leg was really starting to get tired from bearing all his weight, and he gestured anxiously for Starsky's arm.

In the end, after a couple of aborted efforts, Starsky ended up straddling the side of the tub, his left shoulder under Hutch's right arm, and his left arm wrapped around Hutch's waist. Then he supported him as Hutch got his left leg over the side. When he shifted his weight onto it, though, his momentum kept him going in that direction, and Starsky had to switch his hold to pull at him frantically, his hands slipping on Hutch's wet skin. He managed to yank Hutch back into balance; unfortunately, his grip took Hutch's towel with it.

Up until that moment, Hutch had been too embarrassed by his predicament to give his half-naked state or Starsky's proximity too much thought. But his sudden disrobement, combined with the feeling of Starsky grazing his ass as he reset his hand on Hutch's hip, served to make him suddenly, heatedly, and obviously aware.

 _The kind of 'aware' that could ruin a friendship_ , he thought anxiously, freezing in dread as Starsky's eyes automatically dropped down.

The next moment gaped endlessly. Hutch waited. He anticipated either complete, feigned obliviousness, or a raunchy, jovial put-down.

"Gonna let me help you with that this time?" Starsky asked instead, his voice rough.

"Uh." Hutch tried for coherent. "You...you?"

Starsky was waiting, but Hutch didn't have anything more for him. His brain was in lock-down. He panicked when he saw Starsky's frown of incomprehension turn to anger. Starsky grabbed the crutches and thrust them into Hutch's hands.

"Here," was all he said. He started to walk toward the door.

"Wait, please," Hutch said helplessly, knowing it wouldn't stop him. But something in his voice must've done the trick, because Starsky did wait, his back toward Hutch, his shoulders stiff.

"Starsk." _God , how do I say this?_ But it was time. Long past time to tell his partner the truth. He should have told him before he laid a hand on him. "Ever since...the shooting," Hutch said, awkwardness jamming his stupid tongue, "I've been wanting...to tell you something."

Starsky turned back. "Tell me what?" His eyes were curious, but his tone still defensive.

 _God, don't let me screw this up._ "Tell you that...something's changed for me. Tell you that, ever since then, I...shit." Hutch's left leg was starting to shake with fatigue, and he hurriedly put the crutches under his arms, the rubber handles sticking to his naked skin. It gave him the time to gather a little composure, but not much. He tried to say the words.

"Tell you that...I want you."

Starsky's face changed, but Hutch found it, for once, completely unreadable. He shivered a little, still naked, the water dripping from his hair down his face, and waited for the verdict.

"Let me get this straight," Starsky said carefully, and Hutch winced. "All this time, since the shooting, you've known this?"

Hutch nodded miserably.

"Then why the fuck—" Starsky's voice started to rise, and he stopped himself with an obvious effort. More quietly, he asked, "Then why did you turn me down the other day? Make me think you were just doing me some kinda sick favor?"

"Because I..." Hutch was suddenly impatient with his own, stammering idiocy. "Because I don't just want a freaking hand job, Starsky. I want the whole deal." The words started coming more easily, and suddenly a tide of them swept out of his mouth in a rush. "I want to make love to you, for real. I want to make you come so hard your nuts fall off. I want to reach for you, anytime, and have you be there. I want you to want me, _that_ way. Not as friends. Not as fuck buddies or whatever. As...lovers."

Starsky's mouth had dropped open mid-way through Hutch's diatribe, but at the last words, he closed his mouth, licking his lips. Hutch's heart made a heavy ka-thump against the walls of his chest as Starsky walked toward him, his face curiously gentle.

"Why didn't you tell me? Before?" he whispered, and Hutch knew then that it was going to be all right. He knew where he'd heard that tone of voice before, that sexy, low-pitched tone of a Starsky on the make. Hutch's erection, which had wilted during the last minutes, suddenly made an about-face.

"Well, it's not your everyday thing is it? And I didn't want you to feel...weird. Obligated. Since we're stuck together," he explained earnestly.

"Stuck together, huh?" Starsky said, and gave a low laugh. "I like that idea."

Hutch blinked. He wasn't cold anymore. The blood was rising to the surface of his skin at dizzying speed, heating him fast. He could almost feel steam rising off his body as he stared into the warm blue of Starsky's eyes.

Those eyes dropped down, taking in Hutch's arousal, and Hutch made a small sound, part hunger, part disbelief. The way Starsky was looking at him...his arms started trembling along with his leg and every other part of him. The only thing that didn't feel weak at this moment was his cock.

"I think I need to lie down," Hutch said, his voice shaking.

Starsky nodded his agreement, his eyes narrowing in a predatory look. "Yeah, you need to lie down. Right now." He turned and gestured toward the door. Hutch squeezed by him, keenly aware that Starsky was watching his naked ass as he crutched toward the bedroom. He dropped the damned things by the bed, hoping he wouldn't need them for a good long while, and sat down, his bandaged leg sticking out straight.

Starsky had followed him in, and was already taking his shirt off.

 _Jesus. It's gonna happen **right now**_ _._ He wasn't sure why he was surprised that Starsky was willing to get naked with him. That was what lovers did, after all. Then he realized that Starsky had never really said anything about how he felt about all this.

"I thought you were gonna lie down," Starsky said, kicking his shoes off.

"Wait," Hutch said.

Starsky snorted in exasperation. "What now? You want to confess you were once a woman? You're wanted in 48 states and Canada? You have a social disease?"

"You didn't say—I want to know what _you_ want."

Starsky's nose crinkled, and he said, "Boy, you're dumb. Haven't you figured it out? Think I let just any guy jerk me off?" But then his voice gentled. "I want everything you want, babe. Everything you said, and more. Only," Starsky said, unsnapping his jeans and tugging them off, "I don't want to wait until I'm fifty to get 'em. So lie down, would ya?"

Hutch laughed in relief, feeling excitement bubble up in his chest like champagne. He carefully swung his legs up onto the bed, and put a hand under his head while he watched Starsky undress.

Starsky was finally getting the tone back that he'd lost in the hospital bed, and the beautiful muscles on the sides of his ribs stood stark and sculpted beneath the pale skin. As Hutch watched the unveiling of the muscular, bowed thighs that that he'd always admired, his cock started a full-blown salute to the ceiling. So strange, to find that he now considered his partner's male form to be the height of erotic imagery.

Starsky turned, fully undressed, and Hutch got his second gander at that hard, thick, plum-red cock. Starsky looked a little nervous, but then his eyes met Hutch's, and he seemed to find there what he needed, for suddenly his usual confidence was back, evidenced by the cocky strut of his hip as he approached the bed.

Starsky tilted his head. "You done asking questions? 'Cause I don't plan on doing much talking for the next hour or so."

Hutch raised his brow. "Hour? I'll be lucky if I last five minutes," he admitted breathlessly. "It's been a long time for me."

Starsky grinned and slid down onto the bed beside him. "Guess we'll have to be careful of your leg," he said, sounding a little disappointed. "Can't let you get too acrobatic. Maybe you should let me take care of things."

Hutch swallowed, his mouth oddly parched. "I'm all yours," he said.

"You'd better believe it," Starsky said, his voice dead serious. Then he laid his hand on Hutch's chest, and leaned over him.

 _Oh, God. He's gonna **kiss**_ _me._ And then Starsky was. Kissing him. Locking their lips together, a sweet, wet hungry slide of softness against softness, teasing and serious, both. Then a hard tongue moved into Hutch's mouth and he eagerly took it in, sucking at it before offering his own in return, loving the taste of Starsky, like that first sip of hot coffee in the morning, or a glass of cold water on a hot day. Nothing had ever tasted better. The blood rushed fast in Hutch's veins, heating his face, and his chest. He could feel even his ears turning pink as his body responded to the pleasure of kissing Starsky.

Hutch finally broke the kiss when he felt himself start to go dizzy. He opened his eyes to see Starsky's staring hotly into his.

"That was...something," Starsky said, quoting himself. He sounded excited, and a little scared. Hutch knew where he was coming from. This impossible thing that was happening, if he stopped to think about it, would scare the bejesus out of him. Fortunately, he wasn't thinking at all now, except to wonder what would happen next, and if he would get to touch Starsky soon, again, and maybe this time use his mouth on him. He'd been wondering what it would be like, to have Starsky's cock at the mercy of his tongue and lips.

But Starsky had said he wanted to take care of things. Maybe he was a little nervous, and wanted to be in control. That was fine with Hutch. It was all fine.

"You ever done anything like this before, Hutch?" Starsky asked him in a whisper.

Hutch shook his head. "You?" he asked, pretty sure he knew the answer. But he was wrong.

"Well..." Starsky said, and Hutch craned his neck to get a good look at Starsky's face.

"You have? When?" Hutch was shocked, and a little amazed. Of course, Starsky never had stopped surprising him, not in the ten years they had known each other.

"I was young, thirteen or so. My mom caught me in the buff with my best friend Nino. We were having a jerking session," Starsky finally revealed.

"Jeez, that doesn't count, Starsk. You were just a kid."

Starsky rolled onto his back, and Hutch stared at his profile, wondering what was going on in there, and how long it would be before he would get to start kissing Starsky again.

"Sure, I was just a kid, then, but later...I've felt things, you know. For other guys. For you," he said after a pause. "But after the riot act my mom read me when she caught me with Nino, I was too...I never wanted to try anything, ever." Starsky related this information with a quiet, calm voice, but Hutch could feel a slight trembling shaking the body beside him.

"She made you ashamed," Hutch put in.

"Yeah, I guess."

"And...now?" Hutch was suddenly afraid Starsky would call a halt to it. To them.

"Shit, Hutch. Now, I guess, I don't care so much. Not after what it felt like, having you touch me the other day. I never felt anything like that. And not just because you're a guy," Starsky added hastily, turning his head to look at Hutch earnestly. "It's because it was _you_. You know?"

"Yeah. I know."

Starsky stared at him, and then he was moving toward Hutch again, a determined look in his eyes, and he bent to kiss Hutch's neck, his left hand traveling over Hutch's damp chest to play with his nipple, trapping it between his fingers until it stiffened, then rubbing his palm over it.

A moan escaped Hutch's lips. He'd always had sensitive nipples, and somehow Starsky knew it, for next he sucked his way past Hutch's collarbone and down to his other nipple to nip and tongue it. Starsky made an 'mmmm' sound, like he enjoyed the taste, and Hutch took a deep, deep breath, trying to satisfy the demands of his pounding heart.

 _I'm gonna die. Soon as he touches my cock I'm a goner,_ Hutch thought, and he moaned, excited beyond all reason by such a simple touch of teeth and lips. Starsky raised his head, looking pleased at his extreme reaction. Hutch reached for his face, running his hand into the hair at Starsky's temple, the curls soft beneath his fingers. He pressed Starsky's head back down in a shameless bid for more, more.

Starsky went back to his tender attentions and Hutch started squirming, trying to get more body contact, stopping with a gasp when he flexed his injured leg.

Starsky lifted his head and shook his head in admonishment. "No moving, Blintz." Carefully, he shifted so his naked weight was draped over Hutch's hips and left leg. The feel of his warm torso and its soft hair rubbing against Hutch's groin were shattering. As Starsky continued kissing at his chest Hutch moved his left leg, stroking Starsky's hard cock with his thigh. Starsky hissed and arched against him, grinding his erection against the muscle. Hutch's balls tightened at the sensation.

"Starsk. I'm losing it. Gonna blow..." Hutch moaned and tugged at Starsky's head, wanting him up there with him, kissing him as he went. But Starsky had other ideas, and resisted the pull of Hutch's hand to sink lower, his torso creeping inch by slow inch over Hutch's cock as he went down.

"Sweet Jesus," Hutch gasped as he realized Starsky's intent. The tip of Hutch's cock dropped anxious moisture in anticipation. Starsky was now hovering over it, eyeing it intently at close range.

The unwonted uncertainty in Starsky's eyes laid a barb in Hutch's heart. "Won't take much," he warned, by way of offering reassurance.

Starsky grinned up at him teasingly. "Fast on the trigger, sport?"

Hutch smiled back, the feeling of rightness overwhelming him. _This is us. Still us, even in this._ He reached down and drew his fingers across Starsky's lips, which moved against his fingertips. Then Hutch gently stroked Starsky's lower lip suggestively until the wide mouth opened.

Starsky took the hint and, dropping his head, determinedly put his lips on Hutch's cock, sucking the crown into the willing heat of his mouth. Hutch gasped in shocked pleasure and suppressed an urge to arch up demandingly into that warmth. His body shook with tension as Starsky's lips and tongue did maddening things to the head and shaft, and Hutch watched, his eyes blurring, as the dark, curly head bobbed up and down. Then Starsky gripped the lower shaft and angled Hutch's cock, now going down deeper until Hutch felt it press against the back of Starsky's throat. Hutch shouted at the sensation and abruptly he was coming, painfully hard, a rhythmic, powerful pulse that tore an endless groan from his throat as he emptied himself into Starsky's mouth. He heard Starsky make a gagging sound, but he was helpless to do anything but lie still and be battered by the pleasure shooting through his body.

When it was over, he was conscious of Starsky releasing him and wiping his mouth, then elbowing his way up the bed to join him. Hutch looked up to see Starsky's self-satisfied smile.

"Did you like that?" Starsky asked, his voice husky. Hutch drew in a shuddering breath and nodded wordlessly. "That good, huh?" Starsky teased, and Hutch slung an arm around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss, needing to show just how much.

When the kiss ended, Hutch added, unnecessarily, "'Like' doesn't _begin_ to cover it." His hand wandered aimlessly up and down Starsky's back, coming to rest on the round cheek of his ass. It tensed beneath his touch.

Hutch had mourned the loss of its perfection when Starsky had been invalid, for after he'd been bedridden for so long his ass had been diminished from its previous glory, the big hamstring muscles atrophied from lack of use. But weeks of physical therapy had restored much of its tone, and Hutch now squeezed it appreciatively, to Starsky's broken groan of approval. He humped against Hutch's hip, his hard-on kissing the skin there wetly.

"What about you," Hutch whispered. "How do you want it?'" He so wanted to give Starsky a tenth of the pleasure he'd just received.

He felt Starsky tremble a little at the question. "I can do the work, if you'll..." he balked at finishing.

"Anything," Hutch said. "Use me. Any way you want."

Starsky groaned again, and started kissing him, digging his hands in Hutch's hair. Hutch smiled beneath the kiss, reveling in his evident desire.

Starsky knelt up and straddled his ribs, looking down into Hutch's eyes questioningly. Hutch parted his mouth and licked his lips, communicating his willingness for the plan.

"Move down," Starsky whispered, and Hutch complied, scooting awkwardly down on the bed. Now Starsky was straddling his chest, his proud erection a thick column right in front of Hutch's face, the heavy balls at Hutch's chin. He could smell the musk of Starsky combined with the other, familiar smells that defined him to Hutch. The smell that he loved, but more concentrated.

He knew, from this position, he wouldn't be able to do much but be a receptacle for Starsky's desire, but he didn't care. He wondered, momentarily, if he'd be able to handle that much cock in his mouth, but he didn't care about that, either. He wanted Starsky to use him for his pleasure.

Starsky was still looking down into his face, seemingly hesitant to begin. So Hutch licked his lips again, making them good and wet.

"Do it. Fuck my mouth," he demanded. He saw Starsky's cock lift at the request. Then Starsky leaned over him, and took himself in hand to guide his cock to Hutch's lips.

Hutch lifted his head and poked out his tongue, capturing the swell of liquid in the slit, making Starsky's gasp above him. Then Hutch covered his teeth with his lips and took in the head.

Starsky surged forward as if instinctively, and Hutch's head dropped back as suddenly his mouth was filled with the thick meat of Starsky's cock. He breathed heavily through this nose, smelling Starsky's musk, his own cock giving an impossible twitch at the scent, and the feel of Starsky between his lips, and the taste of him, raw and powerful.

Starsky started thrusting slowly into his mouth, groaning low as he moved in and out. Hutch frantically sucked air in through his nose and tried to keep his tongue in motion against the shaft. His efforts were rewarded by a deep growl and an increase in the tempo of thrusts.

Hutch lifted his hand and grasped the wet base of Starsky's cock, rubbing his thumb there.

"Ohh, yeah," Starsky moaned, and he shifted his hips to angle deeper into Hutch's mouth. For an instant Hutch felt panicked that he would gag, as the crown touched the back of his palate, but then he instinctively tilted his head up and swallowed against it.

"God, yes," Starsky groaned. He reached down and grasped Hutch's head, holding him tight. And then his pace increased even further, until Hutch could do nothing but accept the thrusts of the hard flesh, again and again. His cheek muscles began to ache and tremble, but he hung on, wanting this moment to last forever. At the same time, he wanted Starsky to come, to fill his mouth with the flavor of him. Hutch hummed around the shaft and squeezed tighter with his hand, and suddenly Starsky froze and shouted his name. His cock started pumping fluid onto the back of Hutch's tongue, and Hutch tried gamely to swallow it all, but there was too much, the thick semen collecting in his cheeks and leaking from his lips. _Made him come._

Hutch had never been happier in his entire life.

Starsky finally pulled back and Hutch let his cock slip from his lips with some sadness. But the thought struck him that he would probably get another chance.

 _I'll practice. I'll get better at it. If he lets me suck his cock twice a day I'm sure I'll be a pro in no time._ Hutch smiled at the thought, and wiped his face even as Starsk raised his hands to wipe his own. Hutch ran his hands along Starsky's thighs, which were trembling slightly.

"God. Hutch." Starsky seemed almost speechless.

Hutch shifted uncomfortably under his weight, and Starsky hastily moved off of him to lie beside him, his weight resting on his elbow. Hutch turned his head and smiled.

"Okay?" He had to ask.

"You've got to be kidding," Starsky said, wonder in his voice.

Hutch felt his face redden.

"How's your leg?" Starsky asked.

Hutch had forgotten all about his leg, which took the reminder as a signal to start throbbing like crazy. He winced.

"Yeah, what I thought," Starsky said. "I'll get you something." He made as if to rise, but Hutch grabbed his arm.

"Never mind my stupid leg," Hutch said, his voice rough. He had about a thousand things he wanted to say, but above all of them, he wanted Starsky's mouth on his again. Always. "Kiss me again and I'll forget all about it," he promised.

Starsky smiled slowly, and Hutch watched it light up his features, until the edges of his eyes crinkled and even his nose got in the action. If his heart had up and quit at that second, Hutch figured he would die happy.

A second later he was glad it hadn't, though, because Starsky decided to start kissing him again.

~ o ~

"And what about the lease?" Starsky asked him, his mouth full of at least half an apple, and his elbow resting on the kitchen table. He had his checkbook open in front of him, chock full of scribbles and x-ed out notations, and a pile of bills by his right hand.

He was gloriously, outstandingly nude, and Hutch was having trouble focusing on what he was saying.

"What about it?" Hutch asked absently. He was busy bending his knee and straightening it, working the muscle in his injured leg, which was vastly improved since he'd started physical therapy with Gina last week. A good thing, too, because Dobey was near the end of his patience with the two of them. But it looked like soon they'd both be going back on desk duty.

And, eventually, they'd be back on the streets.

Even though the thought gave him a terrible pang of fear, Hutch was so proud of the progress his partner had made he knew he would find a way to deal with the anxiety of seeing Starsky out there again. And, after all, _he_ would be there, too, doing his damnedest to watch Starsky's back.

They'd be out there _together_.

"It runs out next week," Starsky said, and when Hutch looked at him in incomprehension, he gave a snort of disgust. "The lease, Hutch. The beach house. We have to start packing and moving."

"Oh." Stupid of him, really, but Hutch had forgotten they would be moving to their separate apartments soon. He suddenly felt a little cold. He would have to leave this golden place, with the ocean, and warm, open rooms, and...Starsky, to return to his empty, shambled apartment, where only his dead plants awaited him.

His voice must have revealed his disappointment, because Starsky tilted his head at him.

"Way I figure it, we'll probably spend most of our nights at my place, since it's bigger. But I know you have to get home and take care of that jungle of yours. So how about we spend the weeknights at my place, and the weekends at yours? That way we can hit the beach on our days off."

And just like that, the warm returned.

"I love you, you know?" Hutch said, apropos of absolutely nothing. He took a quick breath.

Starsky's face softened, the blues of his eyes glowing. "I know," he said. "You told me when you were coming out of the anesthesia."

Hutch felt his mouth drop open. "Then you _knew_ already."

Starsky shook his head. "Not _how_ you love me. And you said it so damned sad, like you thought I was leaving. But I'm not, Hutch. We're for keeps. You know that, right?"

Hutch couldn't speak for a moment. "Yeah," he finally croaked.

Starsky's lips twisted in an exasperated smile. "Guess I'll have to remind you every so often."

"As good a reason as any to keep you around," Hutch said, rallying. He stood with barely any stiffness and came to sink to his knees before Starsky's chair.

Starsky looked down at him and then ruffled his hair. "So why do I put up with _you_?" he asked, his tone joking but his eyes telling a different story.

Hutch pretended to give it some deep thought while he slowly ran his hands up and down Starsky's thighs, moving them ever closer to his groin.

"I'll keep your checkbook balanced," Hutch said at last. But he was looking down at Starsky's swiftly hardening cock.

It was some time before he got around to his promise.

 _Finis._

July 2005  
San Francisco, CA


End file.
